


Roses

by catfishofoldin99colours



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Catholic Rose, Character Study, Confessions, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Unrequited Love, daphne is more multifaceted than people give her credit for, idk rose is gay as hell and daphne is a bit of a player, in-film scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 04:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catfishofoldin99colours/pseuds/catfishofoldin99colours
Summary: There's a reason Rose wore the sunglasses at the Met Gala all evening...





	Roses

**Author's Note:**

> First Ocean's 8 fic, and of course it's fluff. Thanks to the discord server i'm in for inadvertently inspiring this, they're the best <3

Forty-seven minutes and counting.

That’s all the time they have left until they attempt to pull off the biggest heist Rose has ever heard of, never mind played a part in. That’s all the time Daphne Kluger has to finish getting into her dress, before she waltzes out onto the red carpet of the Met Gala, pretty pink frock swirling around her dainty legs and elegant mare’s neck sporting the most valuable diamond necklace in the world, for the first time in over fifty years.  
The irony of the situation, that Rose played one of the biggest parts in getting this necklace out of the damned vault, only to put it in line of a small group of women working together to steal it, is not lost on her.

She slides another bobby pin over a stray blond curl, pinning it against the large paper roses resting in a circle on her head, and wonders if its too much, for perhaps the hundredth time that evening. She doesn’t usually bring out the rose-crown, but tonight is a special occasion, and she doesn’t get to wear it very often.  
Still, she is a sight to see, and she needs to be unnoticeable next to Miss Kluger if the heist is going to work. She wonders what the other women are wearing tonight as she plays with the dyed-pink ends of her hair. Whatever it is, they’ll all look stunning, but manage to blend into the scene effortlessly, she’s certain.

Rose doesn’t blend – it’s just not her. Anything she does, says, or makes, is a statement on her behalf and her image, whether she means it to be or not. Maybe its just a side effect of being an anxious Irish immigrant in New York, or having an odd fashion sense, but she can’t seem to help being out of place wherever she is. She just… stands out, everywhere, and not in a way that’s classy or attractive. Even Lou Miller, impossibly tall and shockingly blond and brutally Australian as she is, finds a way to slot into the streets of New York, mingling seamlessly with the crowd and becoming another part of the concrete background. She’s striking and hard to forget, but she knows where she belongs – she knows what place she needs to fill, always.

And therein lies the problem, for Rose: she’s pretty damn sure she doesn’t have one. Certainly, she’s a part of this heist, and a crucial part in even making the necklace heist-able. But now her part is over. She’s done her job, save for carry off whatever part of jewellery Constance slips to her tonight; and by then the whole mission will essentially be done anyway. What part does she have left to play? Where does she fit in now?

‘You know I really hope you’re wearing something nice because it would be a nightmare to clash with my own designer, you know?’ Daphne’s shrill voice echoes from her room where she’s putting the finishing touches on everything, while Rose got changed in the very spacious en-suite bathroom.

Rose sighs and smiles to herself – of course, how could she forget? She most definitely has a larger part to play tonight, perhaps the hardest of them all: keeping Daphne Kluger entertained and indifferent to the heist that will see one of the most valuable pieces of royal jewellery stolen off her very neck. Neverminded that guests can bring their designers along, this part of the plan is crucial. It’s a tough job, and there’s probably a reason that Miss Ocean trusted her to do it, which makes her smile at herself. Rose may be eccentric and bankrupt and a little jittery, but Debbie trusts her, and damn if she isn’t determined to play her part well.

Still, she wonders if this mess of roses and dyed curls is too much to stand next to the simple deep pink dress she made for Daphne. The whole getup is a little bit… loud. Maybe if she wears her sunglasses for the entire evening and feigns boredom rather than nerve-wrenching terror (which is a surprisingly convincing act), she can keep the attention away from herself, and thus, her friends.  
She sighs, slips the sunglasses into her neckline and heads out, carrying her puffy flower-printed skirts out of the en-suite.

‘Oh, that’s _cute_!’ Daphne’s dewy voice coos loudly from the other side of the room. Rose looks up to see her walking towards her, long jewel-crusted cape trailing behind. Her hair is still perfect and smooth, not flying over her face and getting in her eyes like Rose’s. She’s glad they’re alone in the room – Daphne made a very big fuss about having the Toussaint’s guards stationed outside her doors while they both changed, threatening to sue otherwise.  
Whether they actually cared about losing their jobs on charges of deliberate sexual perversion, or they were so fed up with her shrieking they left, Rose is glad they’re not here to see her become a flustered mess as she takes in every perfect inch of Daphne’s carefully constructed image.

The woman is a Hollywood star, of course, but it still amazes her just how much she can become an ethereal goddess, and carry it so elegantly. Her form is long, accentuated by the floor-length cut of the gown, and flanked on either side by the cape that glints in the bright lights of her room. She’s touched up her Barbie-esque lipstick, and there’s a dash of pink blush to her cheeks that Rose didn’t see before. Her dark eyes are bright, sparkling, even, and with a small glint of genuine excitement; likely because they’re heading to the fucking Met Gala, the biggest, richest, most extravagantly gorgeous party in the world. Sometimes Rose forgets Daphne is still so young.

‘I love this, is it one of yours?’ the actress asks, taking in Rose’s voluminous skirts peppered with flowers and lace. She seems genuinely interested, and for the first time since they met and Daphne hired her.

‘Oh, yes, it’s um, an old one. But a favourite.’ She says, swirling the skirts and admiring the way the flower patterns dance. She’s always been proud of that, of how she cut the fabric so that the patterns moved with a rippling effect when she twisted and turned. It was an unnecessary addition to an already complicated pattern (boned corset with a small fitted hoop skirt and chiffon for every second layer, _not_ fun), but one she likes, if only because it shows off that she could do it.

‘Yeah, I like it. I’m not usually one for florals, because frankly they make everyone look awful, myself included – hard to believe, I know,’ Daphne comments, as though they were discussing the weather and Rose’s feelings about her favourite dress don’t matter at all,

‘But there’s like, a few people who can make florals look really good, and you, Rose Weil, are one of them.’ she finishes with a little flourish of her shoulders and a big smile.

Even with the insensitive edge to her words, Rose can’t help but blush, and looks up at the tall actress, mouth agape. She’s never been told she’s one of a kind before, that she’s ‘unique’.

‘Th-thank you, Miss Kluger… that’s very kind of you.’ She stammers, smiling. Daphne winks and turns.

‘Honey, it’s not kind, it’s the truth!’ she parrots and sashays back to her dresser table, to finish preening before they leave. Her words leave Rose blushing even harder than before.

Rose checks her watch again – just over thirty minutes left.  
She sits down on the couch next to Daphne’s dresser and tries not to let the panic in her take control. The glass of whiskey she’d skulled earlier is still there on the coffee table, and she’s sort of wishing she’d left some alcohol in it.

Although… she doesn’t necessarily want to admit it, but she’s excited. Nervous and fidgety and playing with the hem of her dress to stop herself from screaming in utter terror at the prospect of being caught, but nonetheless excited. She wonders if this is how everyone feels, how Debbie feels every time she breaks the law and steals something priceless, this little flutter of bumblebees in her lungs as she glances at the glittering diamonds around Daphne’s neck, and thinks about how much that necklace must be worth. She’s considered stealing money to pay off her debts before, and sure, technically taking out a loan from IRS and… never paying it back could be considered stealing (even if it was unintentional). But straight-up heisting a piece of priceless jewellery is not the kind of solution she would have thought of. It’s mad, completely mad – and maybe that’s why it’s worked.

So far.  
She wonders if Debbie’s track record can be trusted to get them all out safely, and not have the crime linked back to them.

Because she’s certain that as soon as Cartier realise their precious necklace has been not only stolen, but replaced with a zirconium fake, all eyes will turn to Daphne, and as a result, her associates on the night. And Rose is _very_ high up on that list.

There’s a loud knock at the door, and a thick French accent demands to know if Daphne’s dressed yet. The actress yells that she needs another ten minutes, and stands up huffily.

‘God they’re annoying. You’d think because the stupid diamonds are worth so much they’d have, like, I don’t know, installed a mini camera in it so people couldn’t steal it, y’know? Then they wouldn’t have to bother with the fucking guards!’ she grumbles. Rose smiles, aware of just how difficult it would be to steal the necklace if it had a camera in it, and eternally grateful technology hasn’t come that far.

‘Well, I suppose they are getting paid to watch out for it, seeing as it’s been in a vault for fifty years.’ She says, standing up with Daphne. The tall brunette huffs again.

‘Yeah but like, how would I steal it from here? Through the window? I can barely take the stairs in this dress, how would I escape with it?’ she gestures jauntily. Rose laughs at the idea of Daphne trying to scale a building, in New York, with her pink frock blowing about her ankles and the necklace on (she doesn’t even have the magnet-thing to undo the clasp), desperate to make off with it. Perhaps the funniest idea is what _Daphne_ could possibly want with the necklace, seeing as being an attractive girl and talented actress like her will set her up for life. Certainly, the money the diamonds would bring in would be a lovely bonus, but what could Daphne possibly gain out of heisting the necklace that she doesn’t already have?

Daphne smiles along with Rose, and soon they’re both giggling at the image of Daphne trying to steal the necklace. Eventually they calm down, and Rose moves to pack up the rest of her things from the bathroom.

‘Hey.’ Daphne says when she steps out again, and her tone is more… sombre than before, a bit shyer and sincerer. Panic flares in Rose’s belly for a second but she squashes it fast as she puts down her things.

‘Yes, love?’ she responds, anxiously. Daphne reaches up and rubs the back of her neck, looking away awkwardly.

‘I, um… I wanted to say thank you.’ She says gently. Rose is shocked.

‘Th-thank you?’

‘For… for this.’ She gestures to the dress she’s wearing, dark dewy eyes glittering wetly.

‘Oh! Well, uh, you’re welcome! It wasn’t that hard, really, um…’ Rose says, and Daphne looks vexed.

‘No, I meant…’ she sighs, and then continues while she fiddles with the little ponytail she has.

‘I meant, thank you for… for helping me go to this. And, and making me feel special. Y’know, I, kinda felt like people only took notice cos I was hosting it this year… and one of the reasons I took so long to find a designer was because I didn’t click with any of them, like none of them really got me or made me feel like they were, I don’t know, giving me the time and attention I wanted them to…and I know that’s stupid, and dumb, and self-absorbed… but I chose you because you honestly made me feel like I was worth it. You dedicated so much effort and hard work to me, and not just as a project or whatever, but… also as a person. Like, you knew what I wanted and you knew how to make it real and you did that, all of it… I don’t know, you just… treated me like I was real, and not a mannequin, and it was… really nice to have that, for once. So, thank you, Rose Weil. For making me feel special, and like you cared about me. It meant a lot.’ Daphne looks back at Rose, her cheeks more flushed than before and smiling shyly.

Rose has no idea how to respond – this is the most honest she’s ever seen Daphne be, period. And yes, over the last few weeks of working with her she’s realised the woman is more than the air-headed actress so many people make her out to be, but this is… something else. Such honesty, such vulnerability, and from Daphne of all people, is not something Rose sees very often; rather she tends to be the one showing all of herself to someone, if Lou and Debbie finding her sobbing and eating Nutella out of the jar as their first meeting is anything to go by. Even within the group, Tammy is more likely to hold it together over a bad situation, panicked as she can get, and Amita, lovely sweet Amita, is more closed-off than she could ever have guessed (side-effects of being friends with Debbie, she supposes).  
Needless to say, Rose isn’t quite sure what to do.

So she does what she does best – smiles, a big friendly smile, and speaks softly, the way she used to for her brother when he got upset.

‘Daphne, love, I… I was only doing what I’d normally do for anyone in your position. To me, the people I dress all have unique ways of being, of presenting, and as their designer its… it's my job to bring out their natural beauty as best I can. And that means, to me at least, to understand them as people, so I can understand what will work for them. But even so… I’m glad I was able to make you happy, dear. It’s been my pleasure to work with you, it really has.’ She says, and there’s a gentle breeze of affection between them as Daphne listens, and her face takes on a soft, honest smile.

There’s an understanding around them that Rose hasn’t really felt with anyone for a very long time. It's nice, to be on an equal footing of emotions, especially with someone like Daphne Kluger, heralded as one of the most stuck-up and obnoxious bitches to ever exist.

Rose is starting to realise, more and more, that there’s a lot more to Daphne than almost anyone gives her credit for.

‘You’re really sweet, you know that? It’s honestly like, superhuman of you to be so nice.’ Daphne says and turns away, back to her dresser. Rose doesn’t miss the little blush in her cheeks, and smiles to herself.

‘Y’know I’m surprised you’re still single, honestly. Like you’re what everyone looks for in a partner, sweet and honest and caring…’ She says, touching up her rosy lipstick once again. Rose blushes, hard, and scoffs, laughing nervously.

‘Oh, love, you are a gem… no, I’m a bit odd for everyone’s tastes… a little too eccentric, I think. Besides, most people don’t like older women anyway.’ She trails off, looking away.

‘Well…’ Daphne’s sharp voice sounds in front of her, and there’s a different tone to it now, something feisty and daring that makes Rose look up; and just in time too, as Daphne steps closer and towers over her on her heels.

She leans forward just slightly, taking Rose’s shaking, calloused seamstress’s fingers in her own. She’s so close Rose could look down her dress if she chose, it being strapless and a heart-shaped neckline – Rose feels her face heating up and averts her gaze.

‘…you know… some people like older women…’ the actress’s voice drops, low and quiet and sultry, and Rose can hardly look her in the eye, her stomach twisting and her heart pounding, as Daphne brings her hand up to her mouth and softly presses her lips to the knuckles. It’s a small gesture, but what really undoes Rose is the fact that Daphne winks at her as she does, one deep hazel eye staring at her through thick, dark lashes. Rose’s breath hitches in her throat, and many, many thoughts from years gone by of being outrageously attracted to women she really shouldn’t be come slurring up again.

Daphne stops, and Rose thinks she’s escaped with her sanity intact, until Daphne reaches forward and gently cups Rose’s cheek, soft fingers grazing her heated skin, and gently presses her pink lips to Rose’s own.

Rose blushes redder than the flowers in her hair, and a tiny squeak barely escapes her throat as she freezes.

The kiss barely lasts a minute – a few seconds of Daphne’s warm mouth against hers. But in that moment Rose’s entire history with women, her quiet questioning of her own sexuality since she was fourteen, arguing against the Catholic ideals her mother used to berate her with, her gentle fooling around with several women in her late twenties, never more than simple kisses and soft touches in the shadows, her utter rejoicing when Ireland declared same-sex marriage legal in 2015… all of that comes flooding back as Daphne kisses her.

Daphne pulls away, looking at her with unreadable eyes. Her face is gentle, but calculating, and there’s a soft huff of breath as she regains it – Rose wonders if she was as nervous as she felt.

Suddenly there’s another loud knock at the door, and the guard is yelling again, and Daphne’s turning away and opening the door grumbling about them being so persistent, and instantly the quiet moment is gone. Rose tries to fan herself to get rid of the blush, but Cartier-hired guards must have a policy against asking about their charges, or by some miracle she’s not as red as she feels, because no one says anything.

Indeed, Daphne doesn’t utter a single word about what happened in their dressing room the entire night. She shamelessly flirts with Claude Becker and makes doe-faces at the cameras and interviewers on the red carpet, same as she always does, same as how Rose knows her to do.  
At some point the interviewer, a young exuberant Asian man, asks Rose what inspired her to give Daphne the Toussaint as part of her look tonight. Rose, still reeling from what happened but an hour before, tries to think of a better reason than ‘I’m friends with a con-woman who wants to steal the damn thing’, and stumbles silently for several seconds, still feeling the warm press of Daphne’s soft lips against her own.

It seems only fitting that she labels the actress as inspiration herself, considering she has visions and ideas of Daphne kissing her all night long, and for several days afterwards.

Had Rose not been wearing her sunglasses, however, she might have seen the fragile, tender way Daphne’s confident smile falters when she doesn’t answer the question immediately; and the proud, happy little twinkle in her eye as Rose names her to be inspiring.

One day soon, they’ll talk about this.


End file.
